In this writing thing, I wonder where the children went—
The ones who play with their tongue and spin in their run.
Now, we have thumbs who call themselves writers,
paying rent In this writing thing without dancing any spunk.

These thumbs poke at the screen and type their heart away,
Writing what everyone agrees with angst and uncapitalized letters.
But I have read more imagery in a license plate,
I have walked crosswalks with more lines than their poems and better.

The writing hand moves to make the reading eyes move
To make their hearts move, so to make their legs move.
And if the thumbs write only what others can relate to,
The world may feel a tear, but won’t learn anything new.

We may write when in pain, it comes natural to write—
To express a sorrow and clear one’s mind,
But sad words don’t make poetry, it might
If buried within was a story, some rhythm, a fight!

“I love you, but you hurt me,” the thumbs will post.
And poetry became synonymous with a diary,
But where is the tension, the imagination, the soul—
Our own lives we write of don’t actually have much electricity.

Play with me the way our child-like elders could.
They always talk of their 3 a.m. sadness, but what about 3 p.m. madness!
There’s pain worse than love, like dropping bar soap on your foot.
Instead, they say blank pretties like “heal like cinnamon in the undergrowth.”

I miss the way they used to play.
They never used to leave us out.